Read Online Fury: Book One of the Cure (Omnibus Edition) by Charlotte McConaghy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte McConaghy
Tags: ScreamQueen
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jokes.
“Tell me about them—about your family,” I implore.
And just like that he is cold and unreachable. “They’re not worth mentioning.”
I draw a breath, wishing I could go back to when he had a happy, perfect family. Now I know it can’t be true—not with an expression like that one. I watch him dish up the food and take it to the big glass dining table. He glances at me and gives a crooked smile. “Sorry, but really, they’re not. Come and eat.”
I sit down and dig in, and good god—it’s the best meal I’ve ever had. “Luke! Delicious poison!”
“Pesto baked eggs, prosciutto and asparagus, baked peaches with mint yoghurt and chocolate crepes to finish. Plus a really good cup of coffee.”
“I might have to move in if you cook like this every meal.”
“I intend on it.”
I look up, unsure if he’s serious. He’s looking at me calmly. “Luke …”
“Josi. I have two spare bedrooms. I have too much space to deal with. I have no one to cook for. All I want is a roommate, no strings attached.”
I get back to my breakfast so that I don’t have to reply. His words have made me yearn. And I have never known an element of yearning that has not ended in disappointment. I have to stop my mind from going to the place where I live a life with delicious food and deep baths and music that comes on when you say a color. That life is too absurd, too wonderful.
“So what are your questions?” I ask. Jeez, it must be bad if I seek out questions about the blood moon to avoid another topic.
Luke jumps up and jogs over to a bench. He presses a few buttons and then the contents of his tablet are flashed across a massive white wall. I am suddenly faced with a larger-than-life list of questions.
“Jesus. Did you have to write them all down? I feel like I’m being interrogated.”
“Sorry. I just didn’t want to forget. I don’t have to ask them if you don’t want.”
I sigh and gesture for him to go ahead.
“Have you tried any medications to stop the transformation?”
The word transformation makes me think of lycanthropy. That would be fun. I wish I were a werewolf. “Yep. Loads. Each year I try something different, usually a lot stronger. Never makes a difference. I can be knocked out and semi-comatose and I’ll still wake up and go on a rampage.”
“Okay. Could this have anything to do with the fact that you haven’t had the cure?”
“I don’t see how. Unless we believe the propaganda.”
“I reckon we should look into it. Do you know why you were never cured?”
“Nope.”
“Definitely worth finding out. How old were you when this started?”
“I can’t remember exactly. In the beginning I’d feel really aggressive all day, and I’d have memory loss after, but over the years I started forgetting entire chunks of time. The first years I can remember feeling really bad were probably around ten years ago.”
“So you were about eight. Okay …” Luke taps the tablet and images appear beneath the glass. He starts to make notes about what I’m saying. “The next thing we need to do is make a timeline. I need you to tell me what crimes you’ve committed, what the year for each was, and the location of them. I’ll jot it all down.”
He really does sound like a prosecutor now, and I feel awash with weariness. My memories of the nights when the moon turns red are like fragments, hazy dreamlike things—probably how normal people remember everything. Usually my memories are crystal clear pictures. But the blood moon memories are unnerving half images and fractured pieces.
Suddenly I feel a touch on my hand. I’m still holding my fork, but Luke places his fingers over my knuckles, gently pressing on them until I release my tight grip and relax my hand. I look up and meet his green gaze.
“This is work,” he says softly. “It’s unemotional, clinical work. You don’t need to relive anything. All you need to do is recount the pictures you see. Understand?”
I
“Tell me about them—about your family,” I implore.
And just like that he is cold and unreachable. “They’re not worth mentioning.”
I draw a breath, wishing I could go back to when he had a happy, perfect family. Now I know it can’t be true—not with an expression like that one. I watch him dish up the food and take it to the big glass dining table. He glances at me and gives a crooked smile. “Sorry, but really, they’re not. Come and eat.”
I sit down and dig in, and good god—it’s the best meal I’ve ever had. “Luke! Delicious poison!”
“Pesto baked eggs, prosciutto and asparagus, baked peaches with mint yoghurt and chocolate crepes to finish. Plus a really good cup of coffee.”
“I might have to move in if you cook like this every meal.”
“I intend on it.”
I look up, unsure if he’s serious. He’s looking at me calmly. “Luke …”
“Josi. I have two spare bedrooms. I have too much space to deal with. I have no one to cook for. All I want is a roommate, no strings attached.”
I get back to my breakfast so that I don’t have to reply. His words have made me yearn. And I have never known an element of yearning that has not ended in disappointment. I have to stop my mind from going to the place where I live a life with delicious food and deep baths and music that comes on when you say a color. That life is too absurd, too wonderful.
“So what are your questions?” I ask. Jeez, it must be bad if I seek out questions about the blood moon to avoid another topic.
Luke jumps up and jogs over to a bench. He presses a few buttons and then the contents of his tablet are flashed across a massive white wall. I am suddenly faced with a larger-than-life list of questions.
“Jesus. Did you have to write them all down? I feel like I’m being interrogated.”
“Sorry. I just didn’t want to forget. I don’t have to ask them if you don’t want.”
I sigh and gesture for him to go ahead.
“Have you tried any medications to stop the transformation?”
The word transformation makes me think of lycanthropy. That would be fun. I wish I were a werewolf. “Yep. Loads. Each year I try something different, usually a lot stronger. Never makes a difference. I can be knocked out and semi-comatose and I’ll still wake up and go on a rampage.”
“Okay. Could this have anything to do with the fact that you haven’t had the cure?”
“I don’t see how. Unless we believe the propaganda.”
“I reckon we should look into it. Do you know why you were never cured?”
“Nope.”
“Definitely worth finding out. How old were you when this started?”
“I can’t remember exactly. In the beginning I’d feel really aggressive all day, and I’d have memory loss after, but over the years I started forgetting entire chunks of time. The first years I can remember feeling really bad were probably around ten years ago.”
“So you were about eight. Okay …” Luke taps the tablet and images appear beneath the glass. He starts to make notes about what I’m saying. “The next thing we need to do is make a timeline. I need you to tell me what crimes you’ve committed, what the year for each was, and the location of them. I’ll jot it all down.”
He really does sound like a prosecutor now, and I feel awash with weariness. My memories of the nights when the moon turns red are like fragments, hazy dreamlike things—probably how normal people remember everything. Usually my memories are crystal clear pictures. But the blood moon memories are unnerving half images and fractured pieces.
Suddenly I feel a touch on my hand. I’m still holding my fork, but Luke places his fingers over my knuckles, gently pressing on them until I release my tight grip and relax my hand. I look up and meet his green gaze.
“This is work,” he says softly. “It’s unemotional, clinical work. You don’t need to relive anything. All you need to do is recount the pictures you see. Understand?”
I
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